


Sorry's Just a Word

by HazelDomain



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Anal Sex, Blood, Bottom Castiel, Cursed Sam, Dirty Talk, Dry Sex, Feral Sam, Fuck Or Die, Guilt, Guilty Castiel, Insufficient preparation, It goes bad for him, M/M, Men of Letters Bunker, Rape Aftermath, Top Sam, Voyeurism, Wall Sex, Winchesters don't apologize, Witch Curses, martyr sex, really bad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-10
Updated: 2016-06-10
Packaged: 2018-07-14 06:13:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,637
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7156805
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HazelDomain/pseuds/HazelDomain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Cas has a split second to make his decision; he has to save Sam, but he has to protect Dean too....</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sorry's Just a Word

 

 

“Don’t pretend you haven’t thought about it.”

“I have never, _ever_ thought about it,” Dean countered, trying to keep the horror out of his voice.

Sam smiled, that dark, empty smile that Dean associated with demon blood or soullessness. He could say something cliché like ‘it didn’t reach his eyes’ but it _did,_ that’s the really, really terrifying part. Sam’s smile was _old,_ the smile of someone whose sense of humor was learned in Hell, and it made Dean’s stomach turn.

“Don’t lie to me, Dean. All those hotel rooms, all that time spent living in each other’s laps, and you never once noticed?”

Sam was strapped securely to the chair, but he had enough play to roll his body obscenely in Dean’s direction. Dean turned his eyes to Cas, not wanting to see.

“Any idea how to fix him?”

“It’s a curse, it’ll wear off on it’s own in a couple hours. Probably.”

“Probably?”

“This isn’t _new,_ Dean,” Sam chuckled, and Dean closed his eyes. He wasn’t listening. It wasn’t true. “I’ve been jerking off to the thought of you for _years._ ”

“He’s basically gone feral, reverted back to his most basic set of motivations.” Castiel paused, choosing his words carefully. “To be honest, I’m surprised he’s still able to speak. I’m not sure it’ll last.”

“What do you mean, ‘last’?”

“He’s getting worse, Dean,” Castiel said slowly. Sam cackled, rocking back and forth in his chair.

“Knock it the fuck off!” Dean barked. “Okay so he gets worse until the spell wears off?”

“More like, he gets worse until he goes insane, or dies, unless he gets some outlet.”

“So, what, we take him out in the yard and let him run it off?”

“That might work. Running, fighting, sex. Ideally we’d get him something he could chase down and then devour, your primal ancestors were very fond of-”

“Spare me the history lesson, Cas. Let’s find some way to get him outside.”

“I’m not sure that’s the best-”

Whatever Cas was going to say next was cut off by Sam’s roar as he launched himself across the room. Somewhere behind all the lewd gyrating he’d managed to slip the ropes, and now his hands were wrapped around Dean’s biceps, shoving him backwards.

Dean landed hard, jarring his elbow, Sam coming down on top of him. He was grinning as he tore at Dean’s clothes, ignoring his brother’s attempts to fight him off.

“Dammit,” Cas swore, and then he was on Sam’s back, one arm wrapped around the man’s throat, forcing him back. “Dean, go!”

Dean shimmied out from under the thrashing duo, crawling backwards on his hands and knees. He bolted for the door, turning to grab the handle so he could yank it shut behind Cas.

The door slammed closed before he could reach it.

Cas hadn’t been following him.

He pounded back against the door, shouting Cas’s name, but it was lodged shut. Something was blocking it from the other side and Dean had a sinking feeling he knew what it was.

“Sam! God dammit you let him out!”

There was an ominous _thunk_ as the deadbolt slammed home.

“ _Sam!_ ”

“I’ll handle it, Dean.”

Castiel’s voice was steady, muffled by the thick door. Dean slammed his fist against it, not even pretending to hope that it would make a difference.

“Cas, I’ll cover you, you can get out!”

“Sam needs this, Dean,” Castiel replied quietly. Through the door, he could hear Dean protesting, but he ignored him. He was focused on Sam, now, the predatory gleam in his eyes as he circled closer. Castiel kicked off his shoes and shrugged out of his jacket, discarding it before Sam had the chance to tear it off him.

“Easy, Sam,” he cautioned. “I’ll go easy. We don’t need to fight.”

Sam smiled, wide and feral, and like Castiel suspected, he was beyond words.

Cas closed his eyes, waiting for the attack. He could do this. Even at his most primal, Sam wasn’t Lucifer, and they both remembered first hand what _Lucifer_ could do, in a bad mood.

“Do what you need to, Sam,” he murmured, and then rough hands were grabbing him, slamming him up against the bunker wall. His eyes flew open and he looked _down_ at Sam, because Sam was shoving him upwards, and preternatural strength wasn’t a side effect Castiel had been expecting.  
His shirt was tearing under his weight, seams digging resolutely into his skin when they refused to give way. He grimaced, trying to shift against Sam’s iron grip. Sam responded by slamming him against the wall again. He leaned in, his body flush against Cas’s, a low growl in his throat.

Castiel froze. He was ninety percent sure that Sam would fuck him rather than kill him, but that other ten percent was burning bright in the forefront of his mind.

He raised his chin, baring his throat, and hell if Sam wasn’t _smelling_ him. He closed his eyes, picturing the hunter in happier times, trying to think of Sam’s wide smile and not the teeth raking across his collarbone.

“Can you understand me, Sam?”

No response- he’d been right earlier, the curse was regressing him.

“Cas? Talk to me man!”

Sam stiffened at the anger in his brother’s voice, and Cas was alarmed to hear him start growling again.

“Dean, listen to me very carefully,” he said, keeping his tone level and calm. “Your brother is beyond words right now. I’m trying to steer his… _instincts_ in a specific direction, but if you make him angry he may act unpredictably. Do you understand what I’m telling you?”

“Cas… you can’t… you don’t have to…”

“Yes I do, Dean.” Castiel slowly reached his hands out, palms outward in a sign of peace. One of Sam’s thighs shoved between his legs, and a lump formed in his throat. “I owe him enough not to let him die. Not if I can do this to help him.”

“I can’t let you.”

“I’m not asking permission, Dean.”

Sam’s teeth were on his throat, hard and sharp, and Castiel tensed, waiting for the sting of a bite. It didn’t come.

Sam dropped him, and he almost fell, but caught his feet just in time to be spun around. Sam was grinding against him from behind, his hands wandering over Castiel’s body, and Cas felt his stomach twist. He wasn’t a stranger to this; thanks to him, neither was Sam.

 

His shirt tore down the back, Sam’s nails dug into the smooth skin.

 

Cas had helped Heaven start the apocalypse, back when he only knew Sam as an abomination. Sam went to Hell to fix that mistake.

 

Sam’s hands shoved their way into his pants, rough and possessive. The zipper didn’t so much tear as _pop_ and Cas knew he was going to have bruises in the morning from the places where the double-stitched seams were stronger than his skin.

 

Cas remembered this, from Sam’s first day in Hell. Lucifer had wasted no time letting his former vessel know that _no_ was no longer a part of his vocabulary. It hadn’t been a gentle lesson. The memory had been locked away in a corner of Sam’s mind, where it couldn’t hurt him, but.

Well.

 

Cas kept his hands pressed against the wall, not struggling, not fighting, as Sam shredded the rest of his clothes. He didn’t even move to help shake the pieces free. Sam was a wild thing, capricious and cruel. Best to let him focus.

He ground his hips against Castiel’s back, hard and long and terrifyingly thick, shoving the angel forward, and Cas grimaced at the feel of the cool brick on his bare skin. He turned his head, letting his cheek rest against the rough wall, and closed his eyes. He couldn’t hear Dean any more, and he wondered if he was still there. It helped a little, to imagine him there, just a few feet away.

Made it worse a little, too.

Sam kicked Cas’s legs apart, forcing him to lean harder against the brick. He scrabbled at the denim of his jeans, and Cas wondered if Dean could hear the sound of his zipper. Hopefully not.

Sam’s body was impossibly hard and solid, crushing him against the wall, the length of his cock rubbing up the cleft of Cas’s ass. He was going in dry, Castiel had no illusions about that. It was going to hurt and he was going to tear, Cas knew that too.

 

“If you remember,” he whispered, and he didn’t mean to whisper but he was having some trouble with his voice, it seemed. “This isn’t your fault. If you remember. Never blame yourself for this, Sam.”

Sam pushed into him and he realized the difference between remembering and _knowing,_ because even Sam’s vivid memories were a pale shadow of what he felt now. He clenched his eyes shut, fighting back the tears of pain because that’s what it was, beyond the violation and the shame and the fear it was just _pain,_ deep and sick and sharp.

His throat burned and he realized he was making a sound, some choked-off little sobbing groan, and he ground his teeth to smother it before Dean could hear. Sam’s breath was hot on the back of his neck, coming in sharp pants as he thrust into Castiel’s unprepared body.

“This isn’t your fault,” Castiel repeated, because when Sam came back to this memory, those words needed to be there. “It’s not your fault.”

It wasn’t Sam’s fault he was doing this, it wasn’t his fault he remembered _how_ to do this. The blame for that lay on Castiel, who had delivered him into the hands of the deceiver, again, and again, and again.

A stream of blood was running down his thigh, slicking the way, too little, too late. Castiel bit his lip, trying to focus on the feeling of the brick beneath his fingertips, not the abrasions on his chest and belly, not the deep pounding ache in his guts, not the tense, roiling nausea threatening to double him over.

“Ah, _fuck,_ yeah, Cas,” Sam murmured in his ear, and Castiel actually laughed with relief. “Fuck you’re tight, you know that? Should have done this ages ago.”

“It’s the spell talking,” Castiel told him, and from the other side of the door, he could hear Dean stirring. So he _had_ been waiting.

Sam’s hands clasped around his wrists, pinning them to the wall as he picked up the pace. His movements were getting jerky, desperate, and even through the pain of it Cas was relieved to know it was almost over.

“It’s not your fault, Sam,” Castiel said again, and Sam was grinding his wrists into the brick, he could feel tendons and bone protesting the pressure.

“It’s nobody’s _fault,_ ” Sam ground out, and then he was spilling deep inside Castiel’s bleeding body, his breath coming hard and ragged against the angel’s throat.

Then he pulled away, making Cas gasp at the stinging _emptiness_ of it. He dropped to his knees, shivering against the sudden cold. It was a parasympathetic response, the vessel reacting to trauma, it would fade.

Sam snatched up a scrap of shirt, perfunctorily cleaning himself off and tucking his dick back into his jeans.

“You’re not half bad, Cas,” he remarked, returning to the chair they’d bound him to earlier. “We should do this again sometime.”

“It’s not your fault,” Cas whispered. Maybe Sam heard him, maybe he didn’t.

Didn’t matter now. The spell was reversing. Nothing to do now but wait.

He rose shakily to his feet, his face burning red when a trickle of something hot ran down his leg. He didn’t know if it was blood or semen. He wasn’t sure which was worse.

He grabbed a scrap of his ruined shirt, wiping the fluid away without looking at it.

His jacket was on the floor where he’d left it and he snatched it up, pulling it over his bruised body and wincing when it rubbed against the scrapes on his chest. He was limping, badly, but Sam made no effort to stop him when he reached for the deadbolt.

“I’ll just wait out the rest of my time-out here, then?”

“Yes, I think that would be best.”

“Any chance I could get some food?”

“I’ll see.”

“Good.”

Sam leaned back, staring at the ceiling with a small smile.

Cas slid the deadbolt loose, and almost fell when the door flew open.

Dean was there to catch him, strong arms encircling his battered body and holding him up.

“Jesus _fuck,_ Cas, did he-”

“Yes, and the spell is reversing itself now.”

Castiel disentangled himself from Dean, each new motion sending dull throbs of pain through his body. Dean glanced back through the open door, to where Sam was waiting. Sam gave him a little wave.

“That son of a _bitch,_ ” Dean growled, but Cas caught his arm.

“It’s not his fault, Dean.”

Dean looked back at him and his eyes were wide, all the greener for the red surrounding them, and Cas realized he’d been there for all of it, slumped in the hallway with his back to the door, listening and knowing and helpless to stop any of it.

“I’m sorry, Dean.”

Dean let out a strangled little laugh and slammed the door shut, locking it from the outside to keep his brother trapped.

“Yeah. I’m sorry too. So what now, we just wait?”

Cas nodded.

 

 

He spent a long time in the shower. It wasn’t a long walk between the dungeon and the locker room, and at the same time, it might have been the longest of Cas’s human life. There was the pain, because of course there was pain, but behind that there was the wet, sticky, loose, sloppy _feeling_ of it, and that was something he wasn’t used to.

Sam probably could have told him, but Castiel had taken his memories on all at once, which meant parsing them worst first. On the scale of things, this hadn’t really registered.

He was lucky, he supposed, because it was over for him.

Sam had spent decades with Lucifer, enduring this over and over and over again, all to fix Castiel’s mistake.

So Cas could handle this.

Every third or fourth step, he knew, he was leaving a drop of blood behind. It was dripping off the side of his knee and when he looked back he saw them, an even line of bright red circles. Ellipses to replace the things he should have done, the apologies he never made.

He knew Dean saw them and more than that, he knew that while he was in the shower, Dean would wipe them up. Like they never happened.

Dean left him at the locker room door, caught between wanting to help and not knowing how. Cas smiled at him, told him it was just a vessel and that it would heal.

Told him to go check on Sam.

He ran the water too hot, forced his face into the spray and let the streaming water inventory his injuries for him. It stung where it ran over abrasions, throbbed where it caressed the dark bruises.

He kept his eyes closed until he was certain the water would run clear, and then another ten minutes after that. By then the sting and ache had become a full body ordeal, there was no point trying to pinpoint any particular injury.

 

There was blood on the coat.

He put it back on anyway.

 

 

Sam was having a good day.

There were runes on the ceiling of the dungeon and a lot of them, he’d put there himself. Done a damn good job of it, too, he thought as he admired them.

Sure, he was currently locked in here, probably because Dean had a stick up his ass about Sam defiling the family angel, but hey, he’d get over it. Dean had been pissed at him before. Lots of times. It wasn’t the end of the world.

He frowned slightly, because there was something niggling at the back of his mind, something he felt like he should remember, but damned if he could remember what. Something about Dean and Cas maybe?

Eh. Who cared.

Right now his main focus was that he was _starving_ and to that end, he tipped the chair back onto four legs and moved to inspect the door.

One deadbolt.

Dean was getting lazy.

He picked up one of the torn shreds of Castiel’s shirt, tearing it into a thin ribbon and twisting it into a loop.

Ten minutes later he was walking down the bunker hallway toward the kitchen. He was pretty sure they had leftovers but by the smell of it, Dean was cooking something with meat in it. Which was good news.

He crossed the kitchen threshold just as the little nagging voice in his head warned him that a conversation with Dean might be awkward right now. He ignored it.

“Whatcha making?”

Dean spun around, his left arm rising into a defensive position and his right brandishing a spatula.

“What the fuck are you doing out?”

“I asked first,” Sam answered, sidestepping his brother to peek at the stovetop. Ground beef, which meant tacos. Awesome. “Where’s Cas?”

Dean gaped at him.

“In the fucking _shower_?”

Oh, yeah. Because of the sex.

Come to think of it, he felt a little bad about that. In retrospect, he probably could have gone easier on the guy. It was probably his first time, and Sam wasn’t exactly _small._ ‘Proportional,’ is how he liked to phrase it.

He’d have to do something later to make it up to him.

“Meat’s burning,” he said, and Dean’s hand tightened on the spatula, but he turned around and dutifully went back to stirring. Which was too bad because Sam was kinda in the mood for a fight. Not a big one, just a brawl, the good old fashioned kind where you ended up sore and maybe a couple chairs got broken. Maybe he’d go out after dinner, find a dive where that sort of thing was on the menu. Maybe pick up a girl while he was out, because nothing got the engine going quite like a good bar fight.

He frowned, because for some reason he thought maybe he and Cas should have had some kind of fight earlier. Had they gone down there to spar and ended up fucking instead? He couldn’t remember. The cause-and-effect was a little fuzzy.

Actually, come to think of it, he was pretty sure that he’d ended up in the basement because of _Dean,_ which didn’t make any kind of sense. It’s not like he’d wanted to fuck _De-_

The penny dropped.

“I’m not acting normal, am I?”

“No, Sam, no you are not _acting normal._ ”

Sam nodded, frowning.

“I didn’t think so.”

“Are you fucking kidding me right now?”

“Would I, normally?”

It was sort of hard to tell. He was kind of creeped out by the fact that he’d pretty clearly been putting the moves on his own brother, but there was something else. Something that was beginning to gnaw at the pit of his stomach, something that was very very wrong, he just hadn’t realized it yet.

But in any case, it looked like he was going to get his fight because Dean was giving him that look, the one that meant he’d just earned himself a pounding. He grinned, bringing his arms up, ready to go down swinging because food was always so much _better_ when you were bone tired-

“Dean!”

For a second he thought he was going to get jumped from both sides, and then Dean just sort of deflated and Sam realized he wasn’t getting a fight tonight after all. He leaned back in this seat.

“Hey Cas.”

“Hello Sam. Are you feeling better?”

“For the most part.”

Cas gave him a small, tired smile, and Sam realized he had a scrape up one cheek that hadn’t been there before. Distantly, he recalled pushing the angel against the wall.

“I was kinda rough on you, huh?”

Castiel nodded. He moved to the sink, filling the coffee pot.

“I expect I’ll heal.”

Dean gave him a look.

“Cas, I’ll get that. You sit down.”

“Doubt _that’ll_ help,” Sam said, eyeing the coffee. “You making decaf?”

“I was going to make tea,” Castiel said, holding tight to the glass vessel.

“Even worse.”

“He can have tea if he fucking wants it,” Dean snapped. Sam held up his hands in surrender.

“Fine, damn, make tea. See if I give a shit.” He frowned. “Did whatever hit me get you too, or have you always treated Cas like he’s made out of china?”

Dean typically cooked with a beer within reach, but Sam hadn’t noticed it sitting on the counter until it came flying across the room, missing him by a scant couple of inches.

“Dean, that’s not helping. Sam, I realize you’re not yourself, and I don’t blame you for any of this, but for your own sake you may wish to stay in your room until the spell wears off.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re saying things you’re going to regret.”

Sam frowned.

“Are you sure?”

“I’m quite sure.”

Sam shrugged.

“How ‘bout you take some of this and go?” Dean offered, flicking the burner off.

“Whatever works. Cas, you wanna come with me?”

Castiel paled slightly.

“No, thank you. I’ll stay out here, if it’s all the same.”

“Well, if _that’s_ the case, I might head out,” Sam said, standing and stretching his shoulders. The idea of the bar was lodged back in his head, though now he wasn’t quite as sold on the fight. Or the girl, for that matter. Come to think of it, he wasn’t really all that sold on _anything,_ suddenly. There was a gnawing in his stomach that he’d taken for hunger, but now that Dean was actually dishing the food up, it didn’t look as appetizing as it had before. Dean was still pretty upset, and Dean nested when he was upset, and the more Sam thought about it, the more that upset _him._

He glanced over at Castiel and the scrapes up the side of his face looked _worse_ than they had a few minutes ago.

They looked like they hurt, actually, and he should probably go get the first aid kit and put some bandages on there. Cas wasn’t used to actually taking care of wounds after he sustained them.

Sam turned down the hallway toward the bathroom, and Castiel’s door was open, and his coat was there on the bed, and there was a brown-red smear all up the side and-

Sam froze, remembering the way the angel had fallen to his knees, blood slicking his thighs, his skin scraped raw-

_There was blood on the wall._

He remembered now, his mind seizing onto that one tiny detail because all the rest of it was there, every bit of it contained there. His heart dropped.

Suddenly he didn’t want a fight any more. Or a girl. Or even the food that Dean was sliding onto the table in front of him.

“Oh my god,” he murmured, and Cas gave him a look.

“Sam?”

“Oh my god.”

He fell back into the chair, almost missing it because his eyes were still locked on the bloody coat.

“I- Cas- oh, god.”

“Sam, listen.” Castiel’s voice was solid, calming, and some corner of Sam’s mind remembered that that’s how he’d talked before, _during-_

“It was a spell, Sam. It wasn’t you. Just a curse, that’s all.”

Sam wanted to look at Cas, but he couldn’t, couldn’t tear his gaze away from the bloody streaks because he knew he’d see the scrape on Cas’s face, see the bruises on his arms and throat and he’d _bitten_ him, Jesus _fuck-_

It was Dean that knocked him out of it finally, slapping him upside the head and ordering him to pull it together. Sam blinked.

“ _Why?_ You could have fought me off! I know you could have!” He rounded on Dean. “And you could have helped him! Where were you?!”

Dean’s jaw set and Sam thought he was probably about to get another slap. Castiel laid his hand on Dean’s arm.

“The spell was regressing you. You needed an outlet or you likely would have died.”

_Don’t blame yourself._

“So you just… _let_ me?”

Castiel nodded slightly.

“I owe you too much to let you die. Not when I could prevent it.”

There was a rushing sound in his ears and Cas might have still been talking, but Sam was remembering, the details shifting in his mind because he hadn’t just been _rough,_ he’d _savaged_ him, he’d done things he’d never in a million _years_ -

“I’m going to get the first aid kit,” he said hollowly.

 

 

Castiel made his own tea, in the end.

Dean offered to do it for him, but Cas was determined. And so Dean just kind of stood and watched Cas watch the water boil, and when it did, he watched Cas add the tea bags and then just sort of hold it, heat seeping out of the mug into his hands. He didn’t sit down.

Dean didn’t know what to do in this situation. Usually his goal was clear: protect Sammy. Kill the monster. Don’t die. In that order, usually.

His regular approach was useless here.

As it turned out, he wasn’t needed. He’d taught Sam well.

Sam came back with the first aid kit, the neosporin and the yards and yards and yards of sterile gauze that they kept because they’re Winchesters.

He and Sam had never been big on apologies. Or feeling talks of any kind, really. Chick flick moments were a waste of time, as a general rule. Just words, and words meant nothing. Half the time they weren’t even true.

Dean had screwed up his fair share of hunts; so had Sam. Sometimes it came out of your skin, sometimes it came out of your brother’s. You came home, you took a drink, you patched it up. It healed. You moved on.

Cas could have put his own damn bandages on, and they all knew it. But Sam needed to do it, and somehow, they all knew that too. Because Cas was family, and in this family, you said ‘I’m sorry’ by fixing what you broke.

Cas sat gingerly on the couch, pulling his shirt over his head, and Dean winced on his behalf. Scratches striped their way up the angel’s back, deep enough to bleed, not deep enough to need stitches. Sam eyed them critically, and then began working the antibiotic cream into the deeper parts. Castiel didn’t react, just let him work.

The front was worse, Cas’s chest and belly scraped raw, and he winced when Sam applied a thick layer of the salve.

“Hold your arms out,” Sam said quietly, and Cas complied, keeping his eyes on the taller man as he wrapped the gauze around his torso, around his belly and over his shoulders.

“That should hold. Let me know if it doesn’t.”

“Thank you,” Cas told him, and he meant it, he really did. Dean closed his eyes. This wasn’t going to get fixed, not today. He remembered the sounds Cas had made, the visceral _thud_ as he was slammed into the door. Dean had been unable to do anything but sit and wait, listening to his friend suffering just inches away.

He didn’t want to imagine the things that Sam could remember. That Cas could remember.

But Cas would heal. Sam would change the bandages tomorrow, and the day after, and the day after. He wouldn’t say sorry. But he’d change the bandages. And Cas would heal.

And they’d move on.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Filling two prompts with this one: 
> 
> Sam get cursed and becomes a more feral version of his previous soulless self. The only cure is for him to work it out of his system by letting his baser desires run free. They have him tied up in one of the bunker dungeons, but it becomes apparent what his desires are when he won't take his eyes off either of them, but mainly Dean.  
> Then he gets free. Cas has a split second to make his decision; he has to save Sam, but he has to protect Dean too....  
> Dean is horrified when Cas shoves him out the door and seals it from the inside. All he can hear then is what's going on, and he ends up slumped against the wall listening to Sam force himself on their friend.  
> Cas should try and assure Sam he isn't going to fight, but I still want Sam using his curse induced strength to try and hold Cas down, maybe even using his own restraints on him at some point? And Cas telling Sam that once this is over, if he remembers it, he has no need to feel guilty or ashamed.  
> Please include some comfort afterwards for all the boys.
> 
> and also: 
> 
>  
> 
> Sam roughly fucking Cas up against a wall, and Cas just taking it. There are, after all, many things for which he must pay penance and he has failed Sam more than any one.
> 
>  
> 
> I hope the OPs are okay sharing.


End file.
